Wishin' an' Hopin'
by SheyRicci
Summary: Come on Dean, wake up...I hate when you do this to me.


Happy New Year Ya'll!

Got more seasons of my beloved Muppets on DVD for Christmas and was watching the episode with John Denver...whom I love...and this vision of 'Grama's Feather Bed' danced into my head and just wouldn't leave.

Long way to go for a silly line in a cute song, huh?

* * *

No matter how old he got, no matter how much time passed, no matter how many times he endured this situation…. the fist-clenching, gut-gnawing, throat-thickening, ruined-hair situation that caused constant dry mouth and wide-eyed stare:

It never got any easier and it never would.

And he stared. Oh, how he did stare. At the floor, his hands, the wall, the window, the wall, the ceiling, the mirror, the wall. Stared until his eyes burned and his head ached and the wall wavered and imaginary images emerged dancing from the window.

He sat and stared. He stood and stared. He paced and stared. He sat, he stood, he paced, he stared. He turned in circles, buried his hands in his hair, clasped his fingers behind his head and he stared.

He stared until the floor circled and heaved; until the ceiling buckled and the crick in his neck caused pain to shoot to his tail bone and still, he stared. He didn't know what to do; there was nothing to do, so….he stared: out the window, at the wall, at the clock, at his reflection in the mirror, out the door. Glued his eyes to the open doorway and waited for someone, anyone, to walk by. He stared everywhere and at everything except….the bed.

()()()()()

How many times can a man say please?

Please, don't let him be hurt,  
Please, don't let it be serious,  
Please, let him be alright,  
Please, not again,  
Please, why now?  
Please, let him open his eyes,  
Please, let him speak or smile or flip me off,  
Please, let him push me away,  
Please, let me take him home,  
Please…just…..please,

How many times had he threatened and pleaded?

I'm sorry, I never meant,  
I didn't mean,  
Don't do this,  
Why do you do this to me?  
You're strong enough to do this,  
Fight through it,  
Don't you dare give up,  
You're not alone, I'm right here,  
You let go, if you slip into a coma, I'll take a sledge-hammer to your car, and dude, I ain't nowhere near as handy at fixing her as you are.  
How many times had he bargained and hoped and wished?  
Why haven't you woken up?  
Why won't you wake up?  
Do you ALWAYS have to do this to me?  
You wake up, I'll never make you a salad for dinner again,  
You squeeze my hand, I'll never make you stop at a farmers market again,  
I'll never even SAY the word organic while in your presence,  
I'll never take your car to shop for veggies,  
I promise, you wake up, I'll do, say….  
I swear, 'less you wake up, I won't do, say…...  
Whatever you want…you can pick the music, the road we take, the restaurant, the motel…..  
If you don't open your eyes, I'll…..  
Wake up, damn you!

How many more 'situations' would there be?

Epic: Death.  
Life-Altering: Electrocution, car versus semi, demon beat down.  
Major: Allergic reactions to bee stings and apple seeds, ulcer, dislocated jaw, infection from being stabbed, impaled – calf, shin, foot – burned, shot with an arrow, captive of a well, concussion, broken leg, drowned, poisoned, cursed.  
Minor: Stranded in fog, storms, avalanches, mud slides, floods.  
Honorable mention: Detours resulting in temporary yet safe, if inadequate, shelter. Regrettable: Stranded with Garth and Kevin.

()()()()()

He plopped his ass into a chair, desperately searching for something, anything to attach his attention to. He'd asked for, and received – 'cause really, what woman, no matter her age, could refuse a simple request from him when he let his eyes go all moist and his bottom lip quivered? – a radio.

'Wishing and hoping, and thinking and praying, planning and dreaming…to hold him and squeeze him and love him…..'

Well, dammit, not that! "Dammit." he cursed, rocking all four chair legs back to rest firmly on the floor.

And somewhere in whatever served as Heaven these days, Dusty Springfield frowned down at him, shaking her head and wagging a finger over his lame attempt to sing her song in a recognizable tune.

"Shit." he sighed, clearing his throat when his voiced barked at him. "Shit." he tried again, testing the acoustics in the room. Yup, that was better.

He needed something to do with his hands rather than flail them all about so he poured water from a puce plastic pitcher into a white Styrofoam cup and sat back down in the chair that was the same in every hospital he set foot in. Puke green or blah blue vinyl with a deceptively cushioned seat that was so hard his ass went numb.

Yeah, fresh water, whoopee, keep it coming…like Dean was awake and could drink it. Well, he conceded in a rare moment of charity, the candy-striper or aide or whatever the hell they were called these days, needed something to do.

His knees bounced. His hair flopped irritably and repeatedly in his face. At some point, and he had no idea when, he'd set the cup from which he'd yet to take a drink, aside and his fists clenched and unclenched until he finally gave in and leaned forward to weave his hand through the bed rails, past the IV tube, over the blanket and under the sheet until his calloused fingers touched the warm skin of his brother's hand.

He sighed shakily, the contact making him sniffle, the evidence of a strong pulse reassuring. He blinked, eyes sore – no, painful – from the strain of constant staring and threw restraint to hell. He wrapped his fingers around his brother's hand and squeezed, pulling the chair closer to the bed so that his awkward pose was more comfortable.

"You gotta stop doing this to me." Sam cleared his throat. "Bad reactions to anesthesia…..course, if you'd stop getting yourself shot or stabbed or broken…..you wouldn't need surgery. Not that you really needed it this time."

Nothing. Not a twitch, not a hitch, not a flutter of lashes.

"Yeah, right."

And that's how he stayed until the nurse came in and told him he had to leave for the night but could return at 8:30 the following morning.

He thought about arguing, briefly considered pleading his case. He was pretty sure he could talk her around to letting him spend the night but he needed a shower, a hot meal and some sleep lying down in a bed with a pillow for his head rather than sitting in a chair with his chin on his chest. His stiff neck demanded it.

"I've gotta go." he told his unconscious brother. "Don't wake up until I get back." he snorted. "Though if you wanna, go ahead…..they'll call me."

He met the nurse at the desk next to the elevators. She gave him a warm smile and thumbs up, pleased he was taking her advice rather than retiring to the waiting room and catching some sleep in a chair.

"He wakes up while I'm not here…..." Sam joked and stepped into the elevator. "Smother him with a pillow." and the doors closed, taking with them, his last view of the doorway to his brother's room.

He wandered from the hospital, took a walk until the cold finally seeped through his flannel and sent him in search of the car. Chilled through, he drove to their motel, circling around to stop at the grocery store he'd initially passed without thought and buy a rotisserie chicken with some kind of soup. He sniffed, okay, might be chili. He let himself into the cold motel room, turned the TV on, ate without thought, then hopped in the shower before crawling into bed and hugging his pillow, cellphone on the mattress next to his head.

Day two: Same as the first.

***000***

"Okay, one more time, from the beginning, what**_ exactly_** did you do? Tell me again what happened."

"Why? I don't see the point of tellin' you over and over and again."

"Because apparently I have cotton in my ears for I'm sure I'm not hearing you correctly." the old man groused. "You say you shot a man. How? How did that happen? What were you doing? Thinking?"

The younger man seated opposite the gruff, bearded elder failed to notice the mounting tension and ire in his companion. He sighed with the arrogance and impatience of today's youth and rolled his eyes. That only served to further infuriate the older man.

"I was on a hunt." he began in a tone heavy with attitude – again. "And these two idiots showed up….."

"Two?" the elder interrupted. Not many hunters traveled in two's. "Two? Both men?"

"What difference does it make? Yes, two men." Junior said impatiently, waving a hand as he refilled his glass with whiskey. "With a big attitude. Thought they knew it all. You know the type. Think their shit doesn't stink. They come strutting in, waving shotguns and sprouting off nonsense…"

"So you shot one?" the elder cut in incredulously, unable to remain silent and barely refraining from exploding. "For talking? Just like that, you shoot someone? Please tell me you had a reason, a damn good reason!"

"Not on purpose!" the clueless youngster protested defensively with a scowl. "I didn't mean to shoot anyone. I told them to stay clear, that I had everything under control and I didn't need help, but no, they went ahead and butted right in…."

"We don't_ just_ shoot _people_." the elder heaved an exasperated sigh. This younger generation was going to succeed where every demon and spirit and supernatural creature had failed – put him six feet under.

"They were in the way." Junior insisted. "The mouthy one, he got in _my_ way."

"He didn't deserve to be shot!" the elder argued. He was silent for a moment, mind racing, thoughts turning. "What were they doing there? Did they say anything to you?"

"Yeah, I told you, they came running out of the trees, shouting orders. Lord, but the one never shut up. Babbled on and on about what I was loaded with. Consecrated iron rounds or silver? Did I have a flame-thrower or a flare gun….blah, blah, blah…and on and on and on." he turned the bottle around to read the label. "This is some damn fine whiskey."

"So, they came with weapons, hunter weapons, and didn't question what you were doing, just what you were hunting with?" the elder rubbed his forehead with this thumbs. "Did it not occur to you they might be experienced hunters?"

"Those two?" Junior scoffed dismissively with a wave of his hand. "No way. All flannel and canvas coats with a souped-up car. They didn't know jack shit about…" he finally saw the look on the other man's face and gained a clue. "What?"

"Two men." the older man repeated slowly, reaching for the bottle of whiskey and taking hold of the neck. "Two men. Both armed with weapons and let me guess….that souped-up car was black?" he didn't wait for Junior to nod. "One had a mop of hair and the shorter of the two was the mouthy one." he raised the bottle to his mouth and drank. Gulped, to be accurate.

"Well, yeah, but…" Junior frowned. "Hey! How'd you know that?" he watched in awe as the older hunter continued to swig from the bottle. Wow, did the old man ever breathe?

The now half-empty bottle plunked onto the table. "I don't need to know any more. I can tell you who they are. Everyone in the hunter world knows who they are."

"Well, I don't know them."

"They had hunter weapons, right? Silver bullets? Consecrated rounds? Dead man's blood? Rock salt shells? Machetes? Flame throwers?"

"How would I know? I didn't ask! Didn't care! They were in my way!" he downed the contents of his glass in one gulp and poured another. "Amateurs. Didn't know nothing. Made my job harder."

"Junior." he sighed. "Which one did you shoot?" not enough whiskey in the world to deal with this. Teach them, guide them, help them learn….hell, there wasn't an instruction manual or a school to teach hunting to anyone. This…..a new generation of hunters, the youth of today, technology…a Winchester brother shot….

"Does it matter?" he countered. "And don't call me that, it ain't even my name."

Damn good question. Did it? No. It didn't.

"Aah. Guessin' you ain't gonna let his go. Let's see." Junior's forehead wrinkled and his lips pulled into a pouty frown. "The asshole with the short hair." he nodded, pleased with his ability to recall what he considered an insignificant matter. "Yeah, but see, I didn't kill him."

"Do you have any idea who you shot?" the elder demanded, already trying to figure a way out of what he was sure was a huge mess, for he was damn sure he knew who the 'two men' were. "How badly was he hurt?"

"Hell, no." he scoffed, weighing the decision of how wise it would be to pour another glass. "Wait, don't tell me you do? No way!"

"Yup, 'fraid I do." he confessed wearily. And he wanted no part of any of it. "Dean Winchester. Brother to Sam Winchester." he flexed his hands, his fingers, gnarled by arthritis creaking and cracking. He didn't physically hunt anymore, his rheumatoid arthritis too advanced but he was still active in the hunting world. "You truly have a death wish, don't you?"

Huh, nope….no, wait a minute, hang on…lemme think…okay, sure, the name rang a bell. Let's see…..Winchester….yeah, wasn't there more than one Winchester? Once the din inside his brain subsided, the cartoon blurb light bulb lit up…Oh, yeah…..those Winchesters. Sure, he'd heard about the Winchester brothers. Who hadn't? Had never met them, had never thought to, 'cause….hello, they were dead.

"Win….chester? Win….who? No…..no…..no….they…..no! They're dead! Right? Aren't they?" the elder shook his head. "They aren't? Then in jail…..I mean…..no?" he eyed his empty glass and refilled it. "They ain't around here no more…..'cause they're…dead."

"So, you've heard of them."

"Of course I have. Who hasn't?" he gulped. "The hunting community ain't that big." he shook his head. "No way it was them. Couldn't be, 'cause again, they're dead."

"You're a youngster….and you weren't raised a hunter, hell who is, but I been around…I knew their Pappy and I knew Bobby Singer…those boys were raised hunters, they know more about this shit then you'll ever know. They ain't dead and you shot one of them."

"I didn't mean to."

"They're brothers." the old man stressed. "Brothers, do you get that?"

"Yeah, well, like I said, he ain't dead." Junior muttered. "I didn't kill him."

"You better do some hoping and wishing they don't know who you are or where to find you, 'cause I'm telling you….you hurt one, the other will come looking to separate your ears from your head and ain't no hunter gonna be stupid enough to help you."

"I didn't kill him." he muttered again. "Hell, I only winged him in the shoulder and again, didn't mean to shoot him. It's his fault he got shot."

The elder man winced; 'them be fighting words to a Winchester brother'. "You better hope that remains true." he was far too old for this shit – too old to train a hot-headed, know-it-all hunter. "Cause an injured brother, the other will just teach you a lesson, but a dead brother…..nothing and no one, not a spell or a curse nor a witch or a voodoo priestess is gonna save your ass from the wrath of the surviving, grieving brother."

"And they're in this life?" Junior rolled his eyes. "If they're that emotional, they shouldn't be in this life. He got in my way….he should have stayed back like I told him to. I had it handled."

"That still don't give you reason to go around shooting people."

"I wasn't shooting _at _him." the younger hunter insisted. "Wasn't shooting _at _anyone. He didn't listen and he got shot!"

"Why were you shooting with real ammo to begin with? Weren't you hunting a ghost? You shudda had the shells filled with salt to dispel it until you could locate its remains."

"I did. But I also had my handgun loaded with silver bullets, just in case. You never know what you're gonna come up against."

The old man pushed to his feet and shuffled over to a picture on the wall behind which was a safe. He swirled the dial until it opened. "Here." he tossed several bundles of cash onto the table. "Take it and get gone. Don't matter where you go, they wanna find you, they will."

"I ain't running like no chicken-shit girl."

"They catch up with you, lose the attitude and start apologizing. They find me, I'll admit you're stupid and I knew about your involvement but you ran like a chicken-shit girl 'cause you were too scared to admit you did wrong."

"I ain't doing so such thing!" Junior stated stoutly. "Why should I be afraid of them? They're hunters, just like us."

"You know, that's a good question." the old man paused, then added another bundle of cash. "Folks always said Dean was the vengeful one. Don't cross Dean, don't piss Dean off, beware of the older brother…..but you know what?" he closed the safe and spun the dial before pushing the painting back to its rightful position against the wall. "It's always been my belief the younger one is the one to watch out for. Kid tends to fall apart and go off all half-cocked when he faces a life in a world without his brother in it."

"Yeah? And what's he gonna do to me?"

"Depending how badly his brother is hurt." the elder popped open a new bottle of whiskey. "You'll be damned lucky if all he does is kill you."

***000***

Day three.

A gunshot wound to the shoulder. No vital organs and nothing Dean hadn't experienced before but this time, nothing had gone right. Fearing the heavy bleeding had been a result of the bullet striking the subclavian artery – yes, Sam knew about that, knew everything there was to know about first aid, he had to, with Dean for a brother – he had ignored his brother's protests and hauled his squawking ass to the nearest hospital.

Why?

Why, because Sam was blessed with a brother who was everything but ordinary; a brother who apparently had negative reactions to being shot with a silver bullet. Really? Like, wow. Oh, and the negative reaction? Excessive bleeding Sam hadn't been able to stop, slow or control.

The doctor had confirmed the bullet had missed the subclavian artery AND the nerve bundle that controls arm function but this was Dean and Dean never reacted or responded the way he was expected or supposed to. Surgery had been required. Huh? Really? The bullet had gone straight through…but no, the doctor had insisted. Routine surgery. Exploratory surgery. Surgery to search for the reason Dean was uncharacteristically bleeding from what the dumb ass quack categorized as a 'mere gunshot wound to the shoulder' with little to insignificant minor damage.

So mere and insignificant it had required surgery?

Sam had warned the doctor Dean didn't react well to anesthesia or come of it as expected and unless surgery was absolutely necessary, Sam didn't want Dean put under. Oh, and watch the amount of painkillers administered. Pfft, fat lot of good his protest had done. Yes, yes, the doctor had assured him, morphine was indeed a respiratory depressant but Dean had yet to show any signs of troubled breathing and he wasn't in a lot of pain, in fact, he was resting comfortably. Just you know, not awake. Like asleep, or in a coma or whatever.

So, here they were; Dean in a hospital bed – again – with Sam sprawled in the same ole shitty chair next to him – again.

Sorry sir, there is no known medical…

No cause, no reason, no explanation, no diagnosis. He's in no distress or pain. We'll wait and see.

Right. Sam had heard it all before. He knew the reason, the cause, but no one ever wanted to listen to him. It was called 'Dean's adverse reaction to anesthesia'. Been there, done that, been through it so many god-damn fucking times. Hell, Sam had even been the one, on more than one occasion to talk/convince Dean into taking a sedative or agreeing to be put under. Yeah, no guilt there, nuh-uh.

He signed, knees jouncing, hands shoved into his pockets, his whole posture one of tension. Could he explain it? No. Did it defy modern day medicine? Yes. Was it normal? No. Did it occur every single god-damn fucking time Dean was put under? Yes. Did he come out of it the same way twice? No.

Combative, angry, docile, loopy, playful, doped, nauseous, sick as hell and puking before his eyes ever opened; Sam swallowed hard, but the lump lodged in his throat remained. But not waking up at all was a new one.

And Sam knew when Dean was 'simply asleep' and when he wasn't. He'd been through it before after the hunt-gone-wrong at Olivia's and the sudden appearance of Lisa. Yeah, that's the past Sam, leave it there, he scolded himself. And this time, Dean wasn't simply asleep. He'd wake up to Sam's whining and pleading and begging, needling and wheedling if all he was doing was taking advantage of some down time to catch up on his sleep.

But he would wake up. _He would! _Sam would see to it even if he had to hold his brother by his ankles, and dangle him out the window until some sense had been shaken into him. All he had to do was watch for the signs then convince the nurse to administer an antiemetic into Dean's IV before he woke up.

"Come on Dean." Sam sighed, rubbing his unshaven jaw. "Any time now would be good."

But….no. Couldn't be that easy. And why? Because he was Dean and Sam's life couldn't be simple or made uncomplicated by a normal brother who reacted and responded the way a human was supposed to. Nope, normal was not in Sam's life. Never had been, never would be.

Hello world, way to be cruel.

***000***

Day four.

His head was nine feet high and six feet wide, but oh dear god, it was not soft as a downy chick. And if there were eight kids, four hound dogs and a piggy stolen from the shed anywhere near him, he was gonna hurl all over Grama's Feather Bed.

Aah….huh? He was singing John Denver? Really? Please, oh please, let it only be within his head. Speaking of which, good Lord, but that…that….that body part hurt. This was beyond any headache ever known to man and that included Sam's stress headaches brought on by anxiety; usually courtesy of something Dean had done to endanger himself.

Yeah, see, he knew that, 'cause he was dealing with the peculiar notion that his hair – _his hair_ – was feeling sensations. That's right, and no he wasn't exaggerating nor was he mistaken. What the hell? Oh, right, yeah, he'd been in this situation before. He'd been given anesthesia. Great, just great. Soon to follow would be nausea and vertigo with visual distortions right behind, knocking on the door to his eyelids.

Well, if he ever managed to open his eyes, that is.

His ears pricked, picking out far away sounds that were detached and unclear….if that made any sense. It didn't but he failed to understand why or how he knew that. What the fuck was going on? The noises soon faded into unreal buzzing that left him confused and apprehensive. Not good.

Before he could figure out any of those fucked-up realizations, odd light began to blink, then pulsate, then dance and oh dear God above, if it happened to explode…he would likely embarrass himself by doing something he hadn't done since he'd been properly toilet-trained.

Could he remove his head and set it aside until it felt better? Well, duh Dean, if you did that, how would you know when it felt better? Besides his hands refused to obey any command to move so they must currently be immersed in set concrete and he'd have to wait for Sammy to come bust him out.

Sammy? Where was he anyway?

Speaking of soiling the bed sheets – least, he thought he was in a bed – his stomach took exception to his head getting all the attention and decided to pick that exact moment to kick up a fuss. His head, as long as he'd lain still had agreed to cooperate, so he tried the same reasoning with his stomach. Yeah, not so much.

"You're ok, just relax." a soft feminine voice told him. "Feeling a mite squeamish are we?"

We? He didn't know how the hell she was feeling but yeah, his stomach was indeed squeamish. In fact, it appeared to be attempting to remove itself from its rightful location. Question was, would it choose to go up? Or down?

"Don't you worry. Your brother requested you be given an antiemetic and it'll kick in any second now and you'll settle down. He said you won't throw a reaction to the medication or suffer from its side effects. No need to worry about dehydration, you've been on an IV drip."

Oh, okay then. Why hadn't she just said 'Sammy had said so' in the first place? Wait, IV drip? How long had he been asleep?!

***000***

Sam sat in the cafeteria, tablet connected to the hospital's free Wi-Fi as he read the emails he had received in response to his requests for information on a young, hot-headed hunter with an ego too big for his own good. He'd find the punk and when he did….oh, but he was going to teach the little prick a lesson.

Another morning spent in a chair beside a hospital bed, watching day time TV on a screen smaller than his own hand had given him a headache, so he'd taken a break to get lunch in the hospital cafeteria. He wasn't willing to leave the hospital grounds or be away from his brother's side for longer than thirty minutes because although Dean remained unconscious, he'd been restless and cranky all morning; frowning and scowling when touched, kicking the blankets loose when the nurse tucked them tight, fisting his hands when anyone hovered over him. Oh yeah, he'd be waking soon and Sam intended to be there when he opened his eyes.

His phone rang and while his stomach lurched and turned and settled upside down, he didn't feel panic or dread.

"Yeah?"

"Hello Sam, Dottie here." said the daytime nurse who had Dean as a patient. "I just administered the anti-nausea medicine you requested."

"Thanks." Sam said and disconnected. He calmly finished his sandwich, drained his carton of milk, then collected his few belongings and headed for the elevator. He felt like kicking up his heels and skipping. Dean was waking up!

If Dean was making enough noise and moving around so much that the nurse recognized the signs Sam had told her to watch for, it was only a matter of minutes before he woke up and Sam would be the first thing he saw.

Dottie gave him a smile when he came off the elevator. She answered his questioning look – had he opened his eyes yet? – with a shake of her head and Sam smiled in return. He continued to Dean's room and settled his sore ass and cramped thigh muscles into the unforgiving chair and waited.

"Hey."

Sam jerked, head snapping up, eyes strained from counting the pattern on the floor tiles. His arms were crossed on his thighs and he'd been leaning forward, hugging himself but upon hearing that one word spoken in a raw, raspy tone, he sat up straight and stretched.

Nothing had ever sounded so glorious and nothing his brother could say or do, could ruin the moment.

"The ball drop yet?"

Except that.

Sam fumed. His mouth worked, his tongue waggled but no words came out. Would security restrain him until the police arrived to arrest him were he to upend the bed and dump its occupant onto the cold, hard floor? For Sam had brought Dean into the hospital on Sunday and today was Wednesday…..four days later and the son-of-a-bitch, upon just opening his eyes, knew what day it was? Knew how many days had passed? _He knew?!_

"No." Sam ground out. Looks like he had two asses to kick. Nothing Dean could say now would make him feel any better. Nothing.

"Ok." Dean yawned. "We'll have to ring in the New Year here."

Except maybe, perhaps, that.

"Sure Dean."

"Get some milkshakes…..you can have your tasteless stale popcorn…sorry it's not at your bar of choice…..but I just….don't think I'm…up to that." his voice grew fainter, the words spaced further apart until they slurred and ceased coming altogether.

"I ain't got nowhere else to be." Sam said. Not yet…..though soon, there will be, but right now, there's no other place I want to be.

***END***


End file.
